


Peace

by Monochromely



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Four Horseman of the Apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 06:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16131572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monochromely/pseuds/Monochromely
Summary: Pearl barely escapes the clutches of White, dread horsewoman of Famine.Pearlrose. Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse AU. Prompt fill.





	Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_nonymous_000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_nonymous_000/gifts).



> Thank you so much for this prompt! It was really fun to write! I hope you enjoy it.

She kneels in front of the hearth as though to say a prayer, her slender hands a clasped temple upon her robed lap.

Eyes raised to the heavens above her hell.

For this is truly hell, this world of starving children and withered crops.

This temple full of rot and doom and emptiness.

(So much emptiness, she feels as though she will be swallowed whole by it.)

God is a woman, and her name is Famine.

Her clawed hand is heavy, her black smile a scourge.

God is a woman, but Pearl’s savior just might be _Peace_.

She does not pray tonight.

(She might never pray again.)

Instead, she _hopes_.

The fire is rife with lucky incense.

Jasmine and poppy and sage.

—

White’s hellhounds have finally found her trail; she can hear their terrible baying behind her—like the sickly keening of rattling chains. The howls clang against each other, steel screaming against steel against steel. She can almost feel their hot breath upon her neck, the miasma of decay that oozes from their silvery fur.

Pearl can only tighten her grip on Bevidere’s reins and urge him to go faster, but the poor creature is at his limit. Between her legs, she can feel the awful heaving of his flanks, the sweat and dirt matting his shaggy, white coat.

If the hellhounds capture them, they will be dragged back to the temple between their sharp, metallic fangs.

They will be cast before White’s feet.

And she will smile at them, all teeth, just before she strikes.

(She cannot rescind Pearl’s immortality now, but even the deathless can still bleed ichor.)

“We’re almost there!” she pleads as the dark forest continues to thin out all around them—ancient, leering oaks becoming white saplings with inexplicably pink leaves. There are hibiscus bushes and the sweet perfume of nectar. Delicate petals swirl along the trail, and a yellow sun peers benevolently through the fleecy canopy.

She can almost taste sanctuary.

She thinks… she thinks _she can see it_.

There!

At the end of this last stretch—a pale pink monastery half-enshrouded by beautiful foliage.

If she can only cross the threshold, she will finally be safe.

If she can only cross the threshold, Pearl will finally know _Peace._

“Come on, Bevidere!” She half-laughs, half-cries as the little pony finds a last surge of energy for this final run.

Twenty feet…

Fifteen…

Carvings of the woman they call Rose intertwine with the four columns that support the roof of the temple.

She is breathtaking.

Her plump arms are extended in invitation, palms open and wide.

Ten…

Five…

A low growl suddenly erupts from her left, and Pearl doesn’t have time to even blink, much less scream, before a hellhound lunges for her head, his heavy tongue lolling wildly in his mouth as his jaw hinges open for the victory.

She ducks but just barely.

Hot, sulfurous breath pulsates over her entire face.

One of his hind claws gouges her forehead, and she can feel warm blood seep down the space between her eyes. It slinks around her nose like branching rivers, pools upon her parched lips.

The taste of it is worse than the sting.

Pearl does not stop to watch as the beast collides into the trees on the right.

(Its visceral yelp and the sound of wood tearing through flesh tells her more than she needs to know.)

Four feet…

Three…

Two… 

She does not stop until Bevidere’s hooves find purchase on the rose quartz steps leading into the the temple, and even then, she does not dare to look behind her until the gaping maw of the open entrance swallows her whole.

She tilts her bleeding head back slowly, hesitantly, and the six remaining hellhounds have stopped before the stairs, hackles raised, feral lips torn back into snarls.

Even though it looks like it would be the most natural thing in the world for them to descend upon the temple like hell on earth, the hounds only bark and bay, their pale eyes seething with menace, with the fury of a missed catch.

“They can’t get you in here, dear one.”

Pearl snaps her head back in a terrified instant, exacerbating her wound. The golden ichor seeps onto her dirt stained robes.

Rose stand before her, the perfect image of her statues, arms extended in invitation.

Palms open and wide.

But the statues did not do certain aspects of her person justice.

Her huge, pink hair that spirals in lovely ringlets down her back.

The way the natural light seeping in from the skylight seems to make her whole figure radiate with an ethereal glow.

She has warm eyes, beautiful ones.

They all but brim with stars.

“I’m safe?” She asks, and the very word is heavy on her tongue—foreign. She sounds like a little girl, like the vulnerable human she once was.

There is no such thing as safety in the world of Famine.

There is only death and destruction and fear and hunger and dust and—

Rose approaches her slowly, cautiously, surely aware of how Pearl looks and feels as though she is a hunted, wounded animal, just seconds away from skittering from the brook.

She stretches forth one of her palms and gently, very gently, thumbs away the ichor that has started to obscure her left eye.

“You’re safe,” she whispers, her voice full of honey and ambrosia and all things sweet. “There is only peace here.”

Maybe Pearl shouldn’t be so quick to believe her.

In fact, she very _well_ shouldn’t, given the world she’s lived in, the hell she’s endured.

But there is something in her eyes—those warm, brown eyes—that plucks at Pearl’s aching chest.

That makes her want to believe.

 _Peace,_ she thinks, suddenly very tired.

She closes her eyes and lets it wash over her, lets a soft pair of arms enfold her into a welcome darkness.


End file.
